


It's Traditional

by Trojie



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Gen, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-30
Updated: 2010-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-13 11:08:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Samhain round of Camelot's Closet.</p><p>Prompt: <i>Arthur wants to carve a turnip into Merlin's likeness, but has a hard time finding one wide enough to accommodate the ears. Merlin is unimpressed.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Traditional

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shes_gone](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=shes_gone).



‘You do realise we’re heading into winter, don’t you? We _need_ these turnips.’

‘Tradition is important, Merlin,’ Arthur retorts, holding another lumpen vegetable up to the light. There’s a barrowload out in the courtyard by the pump, which people are sorting through for their Samhain decorations. Most people are content to just grab a few of the closest - Arthur, however, seems to feel the need to inspect every single one.

‘More important than stew?’ Merlin doesn’t think so.

‘Always thinking with your stomach, aren’t you, Merlin.’

Well. There are other body parts Merlin sometimes thinks with, but he tries to suppress them when Arthur’s around. He tries a different tack.

‘What are you going to carve your turnip into?’ he asks.

Arthur holds up a root, disfigured horribly by two enormous lumps on the sides, with some triumph. ‘You,’ he says. His pose is pure conquering hero, light shining off his hair and shadows catching nicely at the shape of his body as his shirt drapes it.

Merlin’s heart sinks. Other portions of him remain defiantly hinting at altitude.

***

‘It’s a stupid tradition,’ Merlin rails at Gaius that evening. ‘It’s wasteful and ridiculous.’

‘I assume from your tirade that turnip-carving wasn’t part of the Samhain traditions in Ealdor?’ Gaius asks distractedly from the other side of the room, where he’s preparing something that smells like burnt horse-dung.

‘We didn’t exactly have spare turnips,’ Merlin points out. ‘What’s the point, anyway? And why’s Arthur so keen on it?’

‘It’s supposed to ward off evil spirits,’ Gaius says, dripping something purple into the flask. ‘And Arthur doesn’t get a lot of opportunities to express himself without weaponry being involved. I rather thought you'd appreciate the fact that he's got a hobby that doesn't involve you being in physical discomfort.’

‘Well, he’s decided he wants to express himself by caricaturing me in vegetable form,’ Merlin says, not caring if indignation is writ large across his face. 'The mental discomfort is just as bad.'

‘Perhaps he feels your face is suited to the task of terrifying evil spirits,’ Gaius says, and it’s perfectly clear that he’s trying not to laugh.

Merlin retires to bed in high dudgeon. Arthur can carve whatever he likes out of turnips. It’s just that Merlin wishes Arthur knew just how much warding things off of him Merlin had already done. Just once, it would be nice to feel a little appreciated.

***

The next morning, the turnip is on a pedestal that Merlin is fairly certain used to have a helmet on it, just inside Arthur’s chamber doors. It’s been out in the air for a while now, so it’s gone a bit brown. Merlin is trying not to look at it too much while tidying up.

‘I really think I captured the ears,’ Arthur says while Merlin has his head down, trying to tuck in the sheets on Arthur’s bed. Really, what does he _do_ at nights? Wrestle bears? Play Roman and wear his bedclothes as a toga? Sit in the middle of the bloody mattress and systematically untuck every piece of linen? ‘Merlin? What do you think?’

Merlin looks up. Arthur has picked up the turnip and is regarding it musingly, turning it this way and that. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I’m not sure what evil spirits avoid in a pair of ears.’

‘I mean, do you feel they’re an accurate representation of _your_ ears?’

‘I don’t really ever see my ears, _sire_ ,’ Merlin says, picking up Arthur’s discarded nightshirt. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Well it wouldn’t do for me to be producing substandard pieces of art, would it.’ Arthur regards the turnip quizzically. ‘No, it’s no good. You’re just going to have to find me another turnip. Preferably one that’s wider than it’s long.’

‘It’s Samhain _today_ ,’ Merlin points out. ‘You’ve got other things to do, surely? You shouldn’t be wasting your time carving more turnips when you’ve got a perfectly serviceable one there.’

‘It’s not ‘perfectly serviceable’ if it’s not _accurate, Mer_ lin,’ Arthur says, rolling his eyes. ‘Come on, chop chop. New turnip, if you please.’

Arthur’s new habit of sleeping in loose knee-britches without a nightshirt on is clearly a ploy to distract Merlin from stabbing him with a poker in a fit of pique. The depressing thing is it’s working.

***

It is late afternoon, and Arthur now has three turnips carved to look like Merlin (apparently) around his room, and a pile of turnip--peels on his table, which he expects Merlin to clean up.

Merlin does so. He doesn’t want to encourage further conversation that could end in yet another artistic endeavour. Mockery by tuberous root should be banned by treaty.

‘What are you doing for the Samhain celebrations this evening?’ Arthur asks while Merlin is under the table trying to get the last few bits of rind off the flagstones. The sudden noise makes Merlin start, and bump his head.

‘I was going to go and have a drink and a dance with Gwen down in the town,’ he says, crawling back out and rubbing his head. ‘Unless you need me for something?’ _Preferably something unrelated to turnips_ , he doesn’t add.

‘No, no,’ Arthur says. He doesn’t seem inclined to say anything else.

Merlin squints at his master curiously. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asks.

Arthur looks surprised at the question. ‘Have a drink with Father,’ he says, shrugging. ‘Not much, really.’ Judging by his face, this is what he’s always done on Samhain.

‘Want to come out with me?’ Merlin asks without thinking.

Arthur actually looks pleased, for a second, but, ‘No, I shouldn’t,’ he says after that second has passed.

‘Gwen’ll be there,’ Merlin adds, a little slyly. Arthur blushes.

‘Thanks,’ he says, ‘but no thanks.’

‘Suit yourself,’ Merlin says, but with a smile, returning to his work. He dumps all of the turnip scrapings into the bucket he’s brought with him for the purpose. ‘Have a good evening,’ he adds, and turns to go.

‘Merlin?’

Merlin turns back. ‘Yes?’

‘It’s traditional to reward a servant for his service over the year. You should have a drink with me later this evening.’

‘I thought it wasn’t done for nobles to have drinks with their servants?’

Arthur huffs irritably. ‘You can never just take what you’re given, can you Merlin?’ he says. ‘Just take it as read that I feel I owe you an ale for your ... not _entirely_ useless ... service this year, alright?’

‘So I’ll see you later then?’

‘That would be what I was getting at, yes.’

Merlin takes the bucket and leaves. The turnips stare at him accusingly as he does so.

***

Gwen is mildly drunk. And by mildly drunk, Merlin means, really quite drunk. Apparently the mead is good this year. He wouldn’t know, because he’s stuck to the ale and also because Gwen has kept him dancing for the past two hours.

His legs really hurt now.

‘C’mon, it's getting late,’ he says, trying to reel her in. She laughs, and lets him.

‘All right,’ she says. 'Now what?’

'Now, I think I should get you home,’ he says, although she’s a great deal steadier on her feet than he would be at this stage. ‘I’ve got to go see Arthur,’ he adds. ‘He says he wants to have a drink.’

Gwen holds her arm out in a gentlemanly gesture. Merlin settles her hand over the crook of his elbow properly rather than taking her arm, and she smiles up at him. ‘You’re sweet,’ she says. ‘Arthur should be nicer to you.’

‘I think he thinks he _is_ being nicer to me,’ Merlin points out. ‘Can’t you come with me?’ Gwen is usually a very fine distraction for Arthur, and Merlin does a very good job of pretending he isn't jealous of that.

Gwen shakes her head. ‘You have to face the beast in his lair all alone,' she says, grinning. 'And anyway, I'm hardly in a fit state for an audience with the Crown Prince.'

They wander back towards her house together as they talk. The streets are crowded with people, and turnips, Merlin can't help but notice. Turnips carved with all kinds of faces, by people with all levels of skill, it appears. Once or twice he thinks he sees one he _recognises_ , which is ridiculous.

They get to Gwen's house, and the turnip outside is unmistakeably Gaius.

'Did you do this?' Merlin asks her, stopping abruptly and gesturing at the vegetable.

Gwen leans around him and peers at the thing. 'Yes,' she says agreeably. 'Why? What's the matter?'

'Why on earth would you carve a turnip to look like Gaius?' he asks, a bit bewildered. 'I mean, it's a very good likeness, but ... it's a ... _why_?'

'It's Samhain,' she says, as if this is an explanation. 'Didn't you carve turnips back home?'

'No, we didn't,' Merlin says, feeling oddly defensive at his home's lack of ridiculous customs. 'But we bobbed for apples and had a bonfire,' he adds.

'It's nothing bad,' Gwen says hurriedly, possibly because Merlin is still staring at the Gaius-turnip. He tries to school his expression away from being one of horror. 'I ... Gaius has been very good to me, since my dad - anyway, he's always been so nice to me, and helped me when I've been ill, and it's for luck, and it seemed ... I don't know ... it's so hard to thank him, you know?'

And suddenly Merlin gets it.

***


End file.
